by Gail Hewitt
Thinking of the party reminded her that she needed to decide what from her wardrobe would be appropriately festive to wear. Returning inside, she went to the built-in wardrobes that formed the backside of the cabinetry that divided bedroom from living room. Martha had said it would be dressy. Maggie belatedly realized that everything she had for evening looked conservative, even dowdy, the late-day equivalent of the auditor pantsuits Tom found so distasteful. Suddenly she was in the mood to have something really great to wear, something red and splashy, something with verve and style. She resisted the image that came to her of Miles dancing with Aimée Girard in the YouTube video, her red gown swaying around her body.
Screw Miles, he of the supermodel preferences, she thought as she moved toward the phone to call Maja at Bergdorf 's. She'd get her own red dress. In fact, as she waited for the shopper to come to the phone, she remembered seeing an appealing strapless number while she and Martha were looking for suits.
When she arrived at Bergdorf's, she found that Maja had set aside five pieces for her in a dressing room on six. She knew at once the one she wanted, a Heidi Weisel dress in crimson silk, which the shopper paired with Christian Louboutin Open-Toe Passenmenterie Pumps. This time the clothes went on her personal Amex, and she felt almost giddy that she was able to sign the $1600 ticket without trepidation. This was not like her — either the amount or the sudden obsession with designer labels — she knew it wasn't, but it felt really good at this moment in time. It had been so long since she'd just had fun shopping.
On New Year's Eve, inspired by the red dress, she undertook a much more complicated beauty regimen than she normally followed, trying to remember everything she'd seen done by Cindy Arnold, the hair and makeup stylist sent over by Bergdorf 's on Sunday afternoon. She even gave herself a full manicure and pedicure, complete with the proper number of layers of nail polish and finishing coats. Then she put around her neck a collar of several rows of deeply faceted rhinestones set in gold which looked amazingly good for costume jewelry.
Done, she surveyed the result in the full-length mirror within the wardrobe's capacious interior. She thought she looked good. She thought, in fact, that she looked hot. She grinned at herself, and hoped Martha would approve and understand that she had made an extra effort.
The buzzer sounded. It was the doorman. "There's a limo here for you, Miss McLaurin. How long shall I tell them you'll be?"
"I'm coming now," she said, feeling more lighthearted than she had in a long, long time. She grabbed her black clutch and threw on a cape of black cashmere that she'd bought on sale years before and had worn only once. It wasn't exactly right, but it wasn't bad, and she felt very sure of herself when she walked across the lobby and out into the cold night air. Jack Holt was standing by the rear door. As she approached, he opened it and she slipped inside to find herself seated at the back, next to Tom, the passenger section's sole occupant.
"Where's Martha?" she asked.
"Martha at the last minute developed a splitting headache, rather conveniently, it seemed to me," Tom said thoughtfully. "Martha, by the way, doesn't get headaches."
"You think . . . " Maggie began, only to be interrupted.
"I think my dear aunt is trying to set us up. All I can do is apologize." He hesitated. "Martha was the only bright spot in our childhood. Sometimes I think that our visits to her and Uncle Braxton were all that kept me and my brother going. So I give her her head whenever I can. If you'd rather not go, I completely understand."
"Don't be silly," she grinned. "I can take it if you can. Where are we going? Martha didn't say."
"A man with whom I partner in several investment funds throws a big party in his penthouse every New Year's Eve. This is the first time I've been in the city for it, but nothing says we have to stay if it turns out to be boring. You look very nice, by the way."
"No auditor clothes in sight," she assured him.
"You're in a good mood," he told her.
"You know, I am," she agreed. "Suddenly I feel better than I have in a while."
"Getting over the ex-fiancé, no doubt," he grinned.
When she did not respond, he grinned more broadly and turned the conversation toward landmarks they were passing.
"Would you give up your job for ownership of that building?" he asked, pointing to a skyscraper.
"What?" she asked, surprised, then she remembered. It was a game that he'd played way back when. The object varied, but the format was the same: would you give up this known quantity for that unknown quantity?
"No," she said after thinking about it for a minute, "I wouldn't give up my job for ownership of that building. Would you?"
"I don't have a job, remember?"
They both laughed.
"Well, then," he continued, "would you give up your next year's pay for their receipts this month?" He indicated a world-famous restaurant past whose entrance they were driving.
"Nope. Would you give up the 767 for that ship?" She pointed to a travel poster.
"No way," he said. "How about . . ."
It was a silly game, but it was fun, a reminder of simpler times, just in a bigger, more expansive location.
When they arrived at their destination, Jack Holt got out of the limo and prepared to follow them.
"Does he go everywhere with you?" Maggie asked as Holt stopped to give the driver instructions.
"Pretty much," Tom told her. "It was a requirement of the bonding company for years — in fact, there used to be two of them — and I got in the habit. Does it bother you? I can tell him to wait outside."
"No, I'm getting to like having him around. You never have to worry about muggers, do you?"
"There is that," Tom agreed.
As they got off the private elevator that led to the penthouse, Maggie realized that the party was in full swing. Tom handed the cape and his overcoat to the maid in the foyer, and the two of them walked together into the living room, so brightly lit that the enormous views of the skyline beyond were no more than a subdued backdrop. Maggie heard a familiar voice, and looked around. There, across the room, was Miles, looking very jolly, Aimée Girard hanging onto his arm. Maggie froze. Tom, who was holding her bare arm, looked at her in surprise, then allowed his eyes to follow hers.
"Damn. I had no idea he'd be here," he apologized. "Just let me check in with the host, and we'll leave."
Jack Holt, waiting in the foyer, made no comment when the two of them almost immediately reappeared, but quickly called the driver to meet them downstairs ASAP. Maggie suspected — given Tom's impulsiveness — that he was accustomed to rapid changes in plan.
In the limo, Tom patted her hand somewhat awkwardly. "I know," he said suddenly, "we'll make our own party, and I know just the view." He punched a button, and spoke into the intercom.
"We're going to The River Café. Call them and let them know I'd like my usual table."
"They're bound to be fully booked tonight," Maggie warned him.
"We'll see," Tom said. "They're usually very obliging." His confidence was justified. Within minutes of their arrival, a table beside the windows had been set, and the two of them were seated immediately across from each other, so close that her foot accidentally brushed his.
"This is amazing," she told him, looking at the view. "I love it. Thank you."
"We aim to please," he said lightly, looking at the menu. "They do some great food here. Shall I order?"
They had a nice meal — warm pear salad to start, followed by a Filet Mignon Wellington for him and lemon sole filet for her, with Chateau Petrus and a special Riesling sent out by the chef. The conversation was even nicer, with Tom talking about what it was like to be part of the Silicon Valley madness in the 1980s, when kids could get up in the morning practically penniless and go to bed that night millionaires. It was all light and casual, just two old friends simply enjoying a pleasant dinner together and catching up on what had been going on in their lives. It was so agreeable, in fact, that Maggie managed to
forget for several minutes at a time that the man sitting opposite her, craggily handsome in his tuxedo, was no longer her Tom but one of the wealthiest men alive, an international celebrity who received special treatment wherever he went.
Somewhat to her surprise, Tom brought up the topic of his failed marriage and the smart and lovely ex-wife, citing her many virtues and taking full blame for the failure of the relationship. "The real issue is I was never totally committed," he confessed. "Business always came first."
Maggie admired his candor. Most men blamed everyone but themselves in such situations. She thought it showed real strength of character and self-knowledge for a man to accept relationship responsibility. Perhaps that, too, could be attributed to Jameson Halbrooks' influence.
Dessert appeared, the signature Chocolate Marquise Brooklyn Bridge. Tom grinned broadly. "We had to have the cliché New York dessert tonight," he proclaimed.
Sitting there on New Year's Eve in the shadow of the Brooklyn Bridge, the lights of the city sparkling across the river, a rather silly but situation-specific dessert in front of her, Maggie didn't think she'd ever felt more cosmopolitan. She knew it was all a cliché, but it reminded her of why clichés are born in the first place.
Tom looked at his watch. "It's getting close to midnight. Want to take a turn outside?"
Maggie noticed that he didn't pay a check. Did someone else handle all that? Was he sent bills? Did they keep a running tab for him? It was interesting to see how the genuinely rich avoided mundane details.
Followed by Jack Holt, they walked out onto the pier-like structure that formed a viewing platform for the city. It was colder than she'd realized, and Maggie drew the cape more tightly around her. Seeing this, Tom moved closer and put his arm around her shoulders. At the edge, they stopped and gazed westward at the lights.
"It's spectacular," Maggie said. "Don't you love it, even in spite of everything's that going on?"
"Pretty nice place for a couple of kids from Georgia to celebrate New Year's Eve," Tom agreed.
Fireworks began to go off, and horns sounded. New Year's Eve had turned into a new year. Tom leaned down and kissed her lightly, and she returned the kiss — lightly.
"Happy New Year, Maggs," he said.
"Happy New Year, Tom," she replied.
"I'm glad we reconnected," he told her. "I think we'll be good for each other."
It was, she thought, a nice thing for him to say.
During the drive back to Maggie's condo, they kept a friendly distance, not so far that either appeared to be avoiding the other, but not so close that they accidentally touched when the limo rounded corners.
The driver stopped before the canopy outside Maggie's building, and the night doorman began to move toward the limo. "Would you like to come upstairs for coffee?" Maggie asked Tom. The invitation was impulsive, and she regretted it the second it was out of her mouth. What did she expect to happen? This man wasn't Tom any more – he was T. Merriman Scott, her boss, the provider of unprecedentedly large paychecks, impulsive hirer and firer. She felt as if she'd accidentally invited him to a party she wasn't sure she wanted to give. If Miles had been right, she'd just handed Tom the perfect opportunity to show his hand. She was attempting to figure out how to make the invitation sound no more than a joke when he spared her the bother.
"Better not, Maggs. I think we both know that might not be such a good idea — all things considered." He leaned over and kissed her on the cheek, his lips barely touching the skin.
"Well, then, I'll see you in the office." Her voice sounded normal, but she was mortified. The invitation to come upstairs had been spontaneous, without any hidden motive, but his refusal had been so objective and sensible — even cool — that she felt she'd stepped over an invisible line. Tom had kissed her impulsively as they'd watched the New Year begin. She had carried it forward deliberately, trying to what? Punish Miles in kind? Find out what Tom really thought about her? Prove whether she or Miles had been right? Now she'd embarrassed Tom and humiliated herself. She should have realized that — however courteous he had been — she was just an employee whom he viewed with vague fondness for auld lang syne. She vowed she would not make that mistake again. The pleasant, rather jokey tone he'd set tonight was the tone that would prevail from this point forward.
Upstairs in her apartment, she was partly undressed, stripped down to the black strapless bra and lacy brief she'd worn under the red dress, when her personal Palm buzzed. She started to ignore it. It was probably Tom, to whom she really wasn't in the mood to talk. But habit died hard, and she couldn't resist looking, just to make sure. The text — from Miles — was short.
"Looking good, M. Has he made his move yet?"
So he'd seen her at the party? She punched furiously at the device's tiny keyboard. "Has your Fr SM?" God, he had a nerve, given what he'd almost undoubtedly been up to!
So angry that her hands were shaking, she finished undressing, and threw herself into bed. What was wrong with her? Would she ever get it right where men were concerned? Well, 2009 would be different, she vowed. That would be her New Year's resolution, she decided — that she would no longer be the good little girl from Georgia, the corporate victim and passive object of male interest. This year of grace 2009 would see a new Maggie, one who was actually living the life she wanted, one who pursued goals rather than tripping over them. She was a grown woman. It was time she acted like one.
Seems Like Old Times
Maggie woke early on New Year's Day. She lay in bed for a few minutes, the tee in which she'd slept crumpled around her waist, her bare legs wrapped in the sheets. She hadn't planned to wake this early. She'd promised herself, in fact, that she could sleep as late as she liked. But the night had been restless. She'd had bad, or at least unsettling, dreams. Something to do with Miles? Then she remembered. They'd been folded together in bed, naked, wrapped around each other, almost melting into each other, the scent of his skin and hers mingling, his hands almost burning her back. Then, abruptly, something changed, and the odd thing was that she couldn't remember what. All she knew was that she hadn't wanted the change and that she felt bereft after it occurred. She rolled over, debating whether to get up or go back to sleep, then she kept rolling, straight out of bed. What she needed, she realized, was a good workout. All she'd been able to snatch in the last couple of weeks were a few brief sessions on an exercise bike in the tiny gym at Lake View.
She pulled out a pair of sweats and a long-sleeved tee, then socks and tennies. It was quite a change from the designer wear of the last few days, she thought, but it felt good to be slouchy again. Maybe a swim would feel good too. She considered it, then yanked down the gym bag holding her suit. In the bathroom, she made quick work of her morning routine and was out the door in minutes, face scrubbed, teeth brushed, and hair pulled back with a rubber band into a fat pony tail.
The gym was completely empty, not surprising given the hour and the day. She did the circuit, then put in thirty minutes on the treadmill. Next door, the pool was as empty as the gym had been. She changed into her suit, put her clothes and bag into a locker, then almost ran to the pool area where its continuing emptiness made it possible to do one of the huge belly-flop dives she liked off the deep end. She swam ten laps, then floated on her back in the warmish water, her eyes closed. A sudden series of yelps roused her from the near-somnolence into which she'd drifted. Looking around she saw several youngsters, accompanied by a nanny, heading for the dressing rooms.
Glancing at the clock on the wall, she realized that she'd been in the water longer than she'd thought. She climbed out, pulled off the cap into which she'd managed to stuff most of her hair, went into the dressing rom and changed back into her gym wear. In the elevator, she felt almost rubbery-legged, more relaxed than she had in a long time. Maybe it would feel good to go back to bed. She was yawning broadly when she got off the elevator, went down the corridor and around the corner. There, leaning irritably against her door, was Tom Scott.
"In the gym. What are you doing here?" she responded. "No one's supposed to be able to . . . "
"The doorman and I have become friends," he said. "He remembered the limo from last night. I told him you were expecting me. He's holding onto Jack Holt for surety."
"This is so wrong," she frowned. "You are not supposed to be able to get in."
"Well, I did," he pointed out. "Are we going to stand out here all day, or go inside?"
Maggie heaved a sigh of frustration and unlocked the door. "I'm surprised they didn't let you in here as well."
"I thought about it," Tom admitted. "If you'd been much longer, I probably would have tried for it."
Inside the condo, Maggie tossed down the gym bag and strode into the living area. "Okay, we're inside."
Tom stopped and looked around at the space, with its deep blue and cream palette and sparse furnishings in pale gray leather and molded glass. "Minimalist," he said, looking surprised.
"I like minimalism," she told him. "So what?"
"Just that I need to change something I told them about your office. Somehow I pictured you more as the English country house look."
"Did you come to comment on my decorating or were you just in the neighborhood and decided to try your hand at a little B & E?"
"I came to ask you about this." Tom held out his BlackBerry. "Look at the text."
Maggie took the device and read the message on the screen. "May the best man win . . . "
She looked up, puzzled. "I don't understand."
"Scroll down. It's from your ex-fiancé. I don't appreciate your discussing me with him, and I want an explanation. God, it's hot in here." He pulled off his jacket and tossed it on a hassock, obviously angry. He walked over to the climate-control panel beside the door, examined it for a moment, and began punching at it.